


OTP Challenge Day 1: Sweaters

by rhapsodyvintage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Again, Birthday, Birthday Party, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodyvintage/pseuds/rhapsodyvintage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently I like writing about sweaters a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	OTP Challenge Day 1: Sweaters

Sherlock’s birthday was always a strange day at 221B. It was a strange mix of Sherlock enveloping himself in every murder, kidnapping or robbery in the entire country if necessary to avoid anyone and everyone who might know about his birthday, and John gleefully teasing Sherlock and going over the top in celebration. How many days of the year did he have an excuse to poke fun at his favorite sociopath?

As always, John spent the weeks leading up to Sherlock’s birthday assuring him that last year truly was the last year for celebrations- he knew Sherlock hated it and it was simply a waste of money.

John Watson was no consulting detective, but he had certainly picked up enough enough body language tips from him to tell that lie. 

On the morning of, Sherlock was up at 5:30 in the morning, putting on his overcoat and deep blue scarf to guard against the early morning frost of a particularly potent autumn. He moved about silently as usual, his tall and dark form moving efficiently around the flat to grab a few pocketbooks he might need for whatever case he had that day.

John awoke a few hours later to a note at his bedside, its beautifully curved script informing him that Sherlock had a quadruple murder on his hands, seemingly at the hands of a German woman who had proof she was on the other side of the world at the time of the murders. Certainly sounds like a busy day, John thought, attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

At about 4 o clock that afternoon, John had just gotten back from a local party store with a bunch of balloons- some had a flattering photograph of Sherlock from the newspapers on them along with the phrase “Happy Birthday Sherlock!”, and others had a hilariously dreadful picture of Anderson on them. Though it was tough to explain to the employees at the store, John figured Sherlock might enjoy popping them all with whatever sharp lab tool he had on hand.

Of course Mrs. Hudson was only too glad to join in on the glee. She had prepared a beautifully frosted German chocolate cake-John chuckled to himself whenever he realized that Sherlock’s favorite cake flavor happened to meld wonderfully with the case he had that day. “Oh, dear,” she said, putting her hand to John’s as she turned to him, “I forgot to ask you on Tuesday when Sherlock was gone… do you think this will fit him?” She reached for a thick, black, woolen jumper that had autumn leaves sewn all over the front and held it up in front of her. Her smile radiated mischief, but also the kind-hearted love she had always had for Sherlock. John’s eyes widened slightly before he laughed and nodded. “Oh god I hope so.”

Just then a knock at the door made them both jump. It couldn’t be Sherlock already? When John opened the door, Mycroft stood there, wearing his trademark British government smirk. “Hello John.” For a brief moment John wondered how he turned up for a party nobody invited him to or told him about, but that was a pointless question to be asking. As if to answer his thoughts, Mycroft said to him, “Do you think I would pass up the opportunity to humiliate my baby brother?” And that was that.

Mrs. Hudson was just about to distribute flimsy paper party hats to John and Mycroft when a familiar set of steps came up the stairs to the flat. This was it! The door opened to a mix of sounds- John, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson exclaiming “Happy birthday!” and Sherlock cursing loudly at something. Both parties stopped at looked surprised and confused at the other. Then Sherlock groaned. “God, John, why.” “Now now, little brother, we must be gracious for the attention and celebrations our loved ones give for us,” Mycroft chided, unable to hide the joy in his voice. He continued, “And after all, Mrs. Hudson has made a cake for you and we all have presents for you as well. Don’t you want to see what they are?” “You know I don’t, Mycroft,” Sherlock said under his breath, shooting him a glare. But John knew he would be torn- Sherlock never liked to disappoint his sweet old landlady, but how far could his dignity go? Sherlock bit his lip, cursed to himself again and threw on a fake smile, striding forward to kiss Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and embrace her. He glanced at the cake on the table and told her it looked wonderful. John’s chest warmed as he was reminded how “normal” and utterly charismatic Sherlock could be.

John found out while they were waiting for Lestrade to arrive (Sherlock eyes burned a fiery “I will kill you if it’s the last thing I do, John Watson”) that Sherlock arrived home early from his case because it had a rather unexpected ending. “The woman actually confessed, not 48 hours after the murders.” Sherlock looked absolutely devastated. John could have sworn he saw him pouting into his next sip of tea. Before John could offer any comfort, Mrs. Hudson broke between them and held up the jumper she had made for Sherlock. “I made this for you dear, I figured you needed something more than your button down shirts and something less than your overcoat… Something comfy to wear around, you know.” Her smile brightened when she drew Sherlock up from his chair and saw that the jumper would fit him satisfactorily. John had to bite back a huge grin as he saw Sherlock’s expression. Much like when he was forced to wear the deerstalker. He bared his teeth in a barely socially acceptable manner and had to try his damnedest not to spout all the insults he was itching to. John could hardly believe what he was seeing when Sherlock pulled it on without Mrs. Hudson’s prompting. “There, Sherlock, now you look more like John!” Mrs. Hudson laughed contentedly, gesturing to the fact that now both men were wearing jumpers, side by side. Even Mycroft chuckled heartily. John was rather sure Sherlock would have liked to be dead. 

Later that night, things were like normal- Sherlock was pacing the floor with his fingers aligned under his chin, thinking about some other case that Lestrade had probably told him about earlier at the party, and John sat at the table, typing out the day’s events on his blog, whether Sherlock liked it or not. The shredded remains of some Anderson balloons caught John’s eye and he smirked. Instead of popping them with some sort of needle, Sherlock instead chose to shoot each one of them with John’s handgun, looking distinctly satisfied as he did so. Mrs. Hudson fretted for an hour afterwards. Sherlock’s jumper lay in a heap on the couch and John felt a pang of guilt all of a sudden. “You know,” he started, to which Sherlock glared at him for attempting to interrupt his thoughts but he continued anyway. “Mrs. Hudson was teasing when she gave that to you, but she did make it.” … The words hung in the air, and Sherlock was giving him an “are you really serious” expression. “Yes I’m serious, Sherlock. She is just trying to help you know, God knows you need it.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It was enough for you to accept Mycroft’s gift of china as happily as you did; the only reason I didn’t smash it on site was because you use it more than I do. But a jumper, John? Ridiculous. My coat is just fine. You two and your sentiment…” With that he turned back to his thinking, closing his eyes. 

John waited in silence a few moments. He had to keep a flat expression, or he was sure Sherlock would be able to smell it or hear it, somehow. A split second of John being utterly still made Sherlock turn and say “What are you do-Oof!” In a dash John had run across the room, grabbed the jumper then turned on Sherlock and tackled him on the spot, and instantly the two men began to wrestle for control. “I’ll get this on you one way or another, Holmes, ” John growled breathlessly, still wrestling and trying to get Sherlock’s lanky arms into the arms of the jumper. “A nice fantasy, Watson,” Sherlock was able to choke out while he struggled, fighting back a short laugh. Somehow he untangled himself from John and set off running across the flat as if his life depended on it, his long legs disappearing quickly in the darkness.

"Dammit, no!" John got up and launched onto Sherlock’s path, panting and following up the stairs towards Sherlock’s room, its door shut. He rushed towards it shoulder first to try and open the door, and the moment he would have made contact with the it, it was opened from inside. John threw himself into Sherlock’s body and they both collapsed back on Sherlock’s bed. Having the weight of an ex-soldier barreling into his stomach stole the breath from Sherlock’s lungs, and while it caused a few seconds of weakness, John sat on his chest and shoved the jumper over his head, yanking his arms through the sleeves. "Ha!" John cried out victoriously. A short exhale of breath from Sherlock made him jerk and fall backwards into his pillow. His loosened body made it clear that he was admitting defeat. 

"You know, Mrs. Hudson was right, it really does bring out your eyes." John grinned, still a bit out of breath. What a strange sight- even with the woolly jumper clumsily fitted over his torso, Sherlock still had the appearance of the higher echelons of society, his lips pursed in a playful scowl and his cheekbones as carved as ever. His curls were more unruly than John had ever seen them. Sherlock just looked up at him, his mouth open slightly to gain breath. It didn’t help that John was still sitting on his lower abdomen. "If I hadn’t gotten German chocolate cake from this whole ordeal, Watson, you would not be alive to see this wondrous sight.” John laughed, his eyes shining. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to Sherlock’s. The kiss was soft, affectionate, and warm. Sherlock’s fingers started to rub just behind John’s ear when a bright flash broke the kiss. “Wha?” John cackled, got off the bed in a hurry and ran out of the room, leaving Sherlock to realize he now had a picture of him not only in that horrid jumper, but also kissing John. With another exhale but a broad grin, Sherlock tried to gather energy for another chase. Getting up to race down the hall and the stairs, a pervading happiness rang through Sherlock. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible birthday after all.


End file.
